The Smile of the Angel
by Fannie-Claire
Summary: "Here's to pretty girls, who went to our heads" - or how a girl who never knew how to love, through a chance encounter with a group of students, learns what life means as she is faced with the dark shadow of the revolution. Written in Victor Hugo's style.
1. Angelique

**I wrote this story in pastiche form, meaning that I tried to imitate Victor Hugo's style. It's meant to sound like it's part of Les Misérables instead of standing on its own, which is why the characters that are already in the book aren't lengthily introduced. If you want to get to know Les Amis better, I recommend reading Les Misérables part 3 (Marius), book 4, chapter 1. Also, ****I originally wrote this story in French and am currently translating it chapter by chapter into English, so I hope that doesn't make it sound too wonky!**

**Disclaimer : as much as I try to write like him, I'm not Victor Hugo, and therefore I do not own Les Misérables.**

* * *

At the beginning of January 1832, a new visitor came to the Cafe Musain.

Unlike most people who frequented the cafe, this visitor was not a man, but a young lady ; small, thin in such a way that her shoulders appeared angular and her soft round eyes seemed to encompass most of her face, yet without being unattractive, she was easily lost in the crowd of drunk, loud, laughing men, whose voices hid her like speech is hidden by a finger placed across the lips. The child - for she was hardly more than a child - came alone, and left alone; she would sit at a table at the back of the room, near the window, and during several hours she would be deep in thought. Silent, she remained there, speaking to no-one, ordering from time to time only a glass of water and some bread. Truly she was a pretty girl: a faded coif hid curls of auburn hair, her nose was smooth and straight, her cheeks still rosy from her childhood which wasn't far away, her mouth vermilion red. Such lips a boy would have gladly kissed. She had large eyes that shone with innocence, and always they came to rest attentively on all that surrounded her, the tables, the men playing cards, the empty wine bottles, the opposite wall; these ochre eyes noticed everything, watched everything and pierced everything, they searched each man and guessed each secret; all whilst remaining deeply tranquil. The girl knew everything, et she shrugged her shoulders at it as if it were a common occurrence.

And yet, no-one ever approached her; she was hardly noticed, save for her gaze which effortlessly discovered everything. She had an invisible quality, a spectral quality, in such a way that she was easily forgotten. If one had asked one of those men who, five minutes earlier, had felt those ochre eyes upon him and shrugged with unease, if one had asked him who that girl was, he would have replied: which girl? Already she would have disappeared from his memory. And so it was in vain that the maiden was pretty, for no-one ever remembered her; in fact even in her demeanour there was something frail, something that seemed to withdraw from sight, in such a way that she would fade into her surroundings as if she were a part of them; and her modest coif and her grey dress, the commonest of garments, destroyed all in her face that was unusual. All her beauty was dissolved there.

Is one truly beautiful if no-one notices? The girl herself did not know how softly her attributes had been drawn. She believed herself to be simple and ordinary. She was not wrong.

She came to the cafe almost every evening, and sat by the fire; there, perhaps, was the only place where she could warm herself. However, if she was cold, she never showed it. She came around six o'clock at night, and left at ten, having spoken not a single word. She was like a ghost or an apparition, always there, never seen, never heard, watching without being watched, disappearing like those dreams which, once awake, one cannot recall. Her name was Angelique; that was all that was known of her.

For weeks, she frequented the cafe without interacting with anyone; yet by chance, one day, she was noticed.

That day, if by some miracle she had been watched, one would have seen that she appeared rather more troubled than usual. Her coif, quite strangely, was worn crooked upon her head, her fingers crumbled the bread without putting it to her mouth, and her eyes, instead of calmly gazing upon her surroundings, darted, blinked, went from left to right and stayed only for a second in one place before looking to the opposite point. Even more unusual, she abruptly rose at eight o'clock in the evening, paid for her bread and her glass of water which she hadn't touched, and she was making her way to the door when she ran into three men who had just entered the cafe. Angelique did not know their names, but the reader will recognise them: they were Courfeyrac, Jean Prouvaire and Grantaire who were on their way to a meeting with the Friends of the ABC. The girl's shoulder collided with Grantaire's, and he turned around to address her.

'Look what becomes of the world, my friends! Girls shoving adult men! That is why, you see, I am a cynic, that is why I do not believe in mankind. Children shove each other in the schoolyard; young men try to shove adult men around; once grown, they still shove each other, and it is a fight to whoever loses balance first and falls into the grave. Life is but a brawl of the sort.'

Fallen silent, his lips remained parted in a disdainful scowl, and he started when Prouvaire placed a hand upon his arm.

'Pray forgive him,' said the poet, 'he is drunk.'

Angelique stared at them without a word. Her lower lip trembled a little, and she had placed her hands upon her pinafore like a servant accused of stealing; but she hadn't lowered her eyes, and she looked at the three men one after the other, her pupil coming to rest upon one face then jumping to the next, having discovered within it all there was to discover.

Then, for the first time since she came to the Cafe Musain, she spoke.

'It is I who must be forgiven,' she said. 'I was not paying attention to my steps.'

She had a voice which almost sounded like a whisper, and which could hardly be heard above the noise of the cafe, the cups clanking against their saucers, the shouts of men, the laughter, the sound of a piano playing in the next room. She curtsied.

'_Messieurs, _excuse me.'

'Rise,' said Courfeyrac in a genial voice. 'It is nothing, I tell thee.'

She straightened, nodded, and at that moment her ochre eyes met once more those, hazel brown, of Courfeyrac; they looked at each other for a second, the pupil of one searching the pupil of the other, and then Angelique's gaze lit up. This was quite unusual. Countless times, she had seen this man and many more walk by, and her ever-calm expression had never changed at their sight. But sometimes, all that is needed to transform a face from marble into flesh is a word. It is quite likely that this man with twinkling eyes, this man who had been the first to take time to speak to Angelique, had transmitted a parcel of his vibrant spirit to her, and once she had heard him speak - and speak kindly, nonetheless - Angelique did not only look. She smiled. It was a small smile, to tell the truth, and barely perceptible, only just making her mouth tremble and the corners of her lips lift, and it was so furtive that it disappeared a second after it formed, having had as witnesses only Courfeyrac, Jean Prouvaire and Grantaire. Nevertheless - Angelique had smiled.

With that smile, she came out of oblivion.


	2. The Friends of the ABC

**I do not own Les Misérables.**

* * *

The next day, Angelique was in her usual corner, her coif still crooked and her dress still crumpled, when Prouvaire and Courfeyrac entered the cafe. Though she had not seen them, they saw her; they went directly to her table and Courfeyrac said:

'Why, here is the maiden from yesterday! Good evening, _mademoiselle._'

At those words, the said _demoiselle _who, to tell the truth, seemed as much a _demoiselle _as a sparrow seems a dove, raised her head with a jolt. She was unaccustomed to receiving visitors, and was quite surprised to see the two young men standing there, one with a shy smile and unkempt hair, the other beaming and rhythmically tapping his fingers on the table. Angelique found herself unable to speak. Courfeyrac was not disconcerted by this.

'Quite a meagre meal you have prepared for yourself, if I may say so, _mademoiselle_,' he commented with a nod toward the piece of bread on the table. 'Would you not rather have a bowl of warm soup?'

'I would rather,' the child softly replied in a voice filled with resignation.

It was clear she did not have the money to pay for a good meal. Prouvaire, embarrassed, nudged Courfeyrac, who kept himself from making further remarks about the bread; but he was not troubled. It must be said that he was not a man to be discouraged when facing a situation in which social code dictates retreat and apology. On the contrary, he disappeared into the crowd with a shrug that meant he was determined to accomplish a particular task, leaving behind him Angelique and Jean Prouvaire who looked at each other uncomfortably. The boy returned after a short time, a steaming bowl in his hands.

'Now here is something that will fill your stomach,' he said with a smile.

'_Monsieur, _you shouldn't have,' murmured Angelique.

She was contemplating the soup Courfeyrac had placed before her as if she had never been given any before, and did not know how to eat it. At last she lifted her spoon with a hesitating hand, under the watchful eyes of Courfeyrac and Jean Prouvaire who had taken seats at her table, and, dipping the tip of the spoon into the liquid, she took a sip. She was like a newly hatched chick leaving the nest for the first time, and learning to fly: she quivered, throwing back her bony shoulders, hesitant to take a second spoonful, visibly tempted to do so.

'It's good. It's warm,' she said.

'Eat,' Courfeyrac smiled.

She obeyed. As she tasted the soup, the young man made conversation. Jean Prouvaire and Angelique listened without interrupting, and he was saying:

'Can you imagine that as recently as this morning I came across a police inspector who had seen me leaving Enjolras's house, and who thought it justified to ask me if I intended to partake in the impending insurrection. He seemed to be of a rather unpleasant character; not the type who would dedicate himself to a cause other than the buttoning of his redingote every morning. He was so well sheathed in it! Surely he spends as much time on his dress as our Enjolras does on the preparation of his revolution. But I digress. Nonetheless, one must forgive such a character. I replied that it was not my intention, that I am but an honest law student, and that barricades horrify me. He was not convinced but finally let me go after pressing his lips together in a most disdainful manner. I almost shouted after him to take care of the fourth button of his redingote from the bottom, which was shining a little less than the others, but on second thoughts I did not. When one is preparing a revolution, one does not have the time for such things.

He feigned a sigh. Angelique, looking up for a moment from her meal, asked:

'So you do indeed intend to participate?'

'Naturally I do!' replied Courfeyrac with a broad smile.

'It is our duty to defend our homeland,' Jean Prouvaire added.

'And in the name of what do you defend it?' questioned Angelique.

'Of equality,' said Courfeyrac.

'Of bread,' added Prouvaire.

'Of work and equal salaries.'

'Of public instruction.'

'That is good,' said Angelique. Then she added in a whisper: 'But it is not that which shall put a roof above my head.'

Courfeyrac and Jean Prouvaire did not hear her, and continued their speech with the verve and energy of two students debating of a theory. Angelique listened to them distantly, not quite able to grasp the concept. To tell the truth, she did not know much about politics.

Nevertheless, it was after this dialog that they became friends.

At the age of these young people entering the midday of life, who left yesterday with haste and have not a care for tomorrow, one has time for everything, yet wants to wait for nothing: friendships cement fast, as if one thought they would not last long and one wanted to make the most of them, and acquaintances do not exist. A man is either a stranger, or a friend. There is no intermediary state. In such a way, Courfeyrac and Jean Prouvaire found new company in Angelique. Every day, Courfeyrac would look for the girl at her table in the corner of the cafe, and he would fetch a bowl of soup despite Angelique's persistent refusals; he talked about everything and nothing, and she listened to him, her eyes shining with a light which resembled admiration for this cheerful and spirited student. Friendship being something permeable, after some time, Angelique also began to frequent Courfeyrac and Jean Prouvaire's comrades, who were all members of the secret society of the Friends of the ABC; though she was a maiden and could not participate in the meetings which took place in their private room, she made friends among them, listened attentively to all their conversations - even when they discussed politics - speaking little, observing everything. She read the compositions of the poet Jean Prouvaire, who liked to call himself Jehan, listened to Bahorel as he recounted the riot in which he had participated ten years before, during the funeral of young Lallemand, and let Feuilly speak of countries she was hardly familiar with. Her smiles were a rare gift which were not granted to everyone; most often they were offered to Courfeyrac, the rest of the time to Jean Prouvaire or Combeferre, whose reflective and easy-going temperament she admired. It was not that she was not fond of the others, rather that she did not want to, or could not, show it. Nevertheless, they liked her well; and she had a way of appearing at the table of the Friends of the ABC without being noticed, so that her motives for being present were not questioned. They believed themselves to be among men only, and the spectre of a woman watched them.

As angelic as she was, Grantaire found that the name suited her ill, for an angel, he said, is majestic, it is divine even, it wears not a grey dress and a faded coif; it is not frail; it cannot have barely left childhood. In truth, the only thing which could have been qualified as angelic in the girl was her face; and that was not because it was stunning, but because it was soft, innocent, and peaceful, and one could sense something ineffable in those great ochre eyes which was like a wingbeat in the distance. But it seemed to be more the wings of a butterfly than of an angel. That said, she had not the majesty to be Michael's sister, neither the plumpness to be a cherub; and Angelique was the only name she was known by; so Grantaire began to call her Petit-Ange - little angel. The sobriquet suited her well, and henceforth she was known as such at the Cafe Musain.

So the days went by, and she continued to mingle with the Friends of the ABC under the ever-watchful eye of Courfeyrac, who felt responsible for her; until one day, she simply disappeared.


	3. Courfeyrac remembers a smile

**I do not own Les Misérables.**

* * *

In April 1832, Angelique ceased to visit the Cafe Musain.

She disappeared as she had appeared, without being noticed; only a week after her departure did the Friends of the ABC realise she was no longer there. 'By the bye,' said Bossuet one evening, 'where is our Petit-Ange?'

'Why then,' said Joly, 'that is true. We haven't seen her for some time, have we?'

All eyes turned to Jehan and Courfeyrac who, among the Friends of the ABC, had most frequented her.

'True, she has disappeared,' shrugged Jehan. 'But I could not say any more than you where she has gone.'

Contrary to his usual habit, Courfeyrac remained silent.

Not long afterward, Enjolras joined the group and the Petit-Ange was forgotten; to tell the truth, they did not speak of her again for several weeks. Feuilly discussed the political system of Greece with Combeferre, Bahorel counted his exploits to Grantaire, and Jean Prouvaire continued to write poetry, forgetting that several weeks earlier he would show his new compositions to Angelique. Days went by; it seemed as if the child had disappeared into the mist and been effaced from all memories. All? No. One man remembered. In this continuously moving life, he alone had remained still. The face of the Petit-Ange was carved in his mind, so much that it seemed to appear everywhere; a word, and the girl's features would come back to him, like a picture sketched on a windowpane reappears when the breath of speech fogs the glass. In vain, this man passed his hand over the pane; in vain, he tried to forget. He could not help but think, night and day, of the apparition he had witnessed at the Cafe Musain, the ghostlike maiden who was no longer there; this man wished he had noticed her sooner, spoken to her sooner. This man? This man was Courfeyrac.

Why was it that he alone, when all others had forgotten, remembered? The answer is simple. The reader will recall that after colliding with Grantaire, Angelique exchanged a glance with Courfeyrac; but that was not all; the real culprit was what had followed, the smile. Small as it had been, it had illuminated this impassive face and glowed like the first star of the evening does, and that slight movement of the lips which only two men had seen - for Grantaire had been too drunk to notice - had dazzled. In Prouvaire's case, the effects had only lasted for the time Angelique was present; but to Courfeyrac, to whom the smile had been destined, its radiance had been like that of the sun, of which there remains a glow in the sky even though it is gone beyond the horizon; the young man could not close his eyes to this light. And still he did not understand; for his heart many times before had fluttered at the sight of a maiden's smile; yet Angelique's smile was different, and that Courfeyrac could not explain. How could a movement so small in the corner of that vermillion mouth warm his soul so? What Courfeyrac did not realise was that the smile of any of the _demoiselles _of Paris is like another glimmer in the sky; when it shines, it shines just as much as yesterday's star, and just as much as tomorrow's. A new speck of light is easily lost in so many constellations. But the Petit-Ange's sky was empty and black as the deepest abyss; the first star to be set alight in such darkness has the same effect as the rising sun, and is just as precious.

The smile of a maiden who does not smile is worth more than all the laughs of a maiden who smiles.

Courfeyrac was not conscious of it, but his soul had felt it: that first star had been destined for him.

Why had Angelique gifted Courfeyrac with such a jewel? She herself did not know; perhaps was it because he had been kind to her. She had had no other intention than that of thanking him, this man who had forgiven her for her clumsiness. But Courfeyrac was not aware of that; he wasn't aware of anything; all he knew was that he could no longer forget that girl with the ochre eyes and the smile which to him was like an enchantment. He was in love.

Only the object of his love was missing.


	4. A storm and an epidemic

**I do not own Les Misérables.**

* * *

Since the beginning of the year, cholera had plagued the city of Paris; men were dying by the thousands; and as the month of April drew to a close, as if to further dampen the spirits of the townsmen, a cold shower of rain flooded the streets. Water streamed over the pavements, tradesmen retreated into their shops, the wheels of the fiacres parted the stream like Moses parted the Red Sea, and the trees which had barely begun to blossom drooped their branches with an air of despondency. Few people dared to venture into such a deluge. Nevertheless, at the Cafe Musain, the meeting of the Friends of the ABC took place as usual, though the room was almost empty; at ten o'clock in the evening they adjourned and, in groups of two to three students, made their way home through the curtain of rain.

The streets were almost deserted; in the shelter of a doorway, two men were talking in hushed voices, which fell silent when Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac walked by; nearby, a beggar girl, her dress torn and stained with mud, shivered at the corner of a street. 'Poor child,' said Combeferre when he saw her. 'Most certainly she hasn't a roof under which she could take shelter, or she wouldn't be here.'

'The people of France are dying,' said Enjolras. 'They want bread, the king gives them crumbs; they need a roof over their heads, the king replies: I'll give you a beret!'

Courfeyrac intervened in a voice tinted with irony:

'One day, our dear monarch will tell us that Paris bores him, and that the city must be embellished with new constructions. Then we can say: we'll give you barricades!'

They passed by the beggar, and Enjolras threw her a sou.

'How strange,' muttered Combeferre, 'I am certain I've seen her face before.'

The three men halted, and looked back. Combeferre squinted but had trouble seeing through the rain; Courfeyrac lay a hand upon his shoulder.

'Say, how can you expect to recognise a face in such a downpour? In any case, I am sure you're imagining things. Come, let's go.'

But as he spoke, the wretched girl, drawn from her thoughts by the ringing of the coin on the cobblestones, as well as the voices debating nearby, lifted her head. She calmly studied the group of men, and, through the rain, through the mud that masked her face, through the darkness of night, one could discern two ochre eyes which pierced through the storm and came to rest ever so softly upon the silhouettes of Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac. The girl lifted in her closed fist the coin Enjolras had given her.

'Take it back,' she whispered. 'It can't help me now.'

And then Combeferre, at last, recognised her. It was Angelique.

She was shaking; her hand, barely raised, fell upon her knees and released the coin, letting it roll onto the cobbles. Courfeyrac rushed forward.

'_Mademoiselle, _what in God's name happened to you?'

With the little strength that remained in her body, Angelique pushed him away.

'Let me be. It's no use.'

'Are you unwell?' Courfeyrac insisted. 'Are you cold? Here, take my coat.'

'Let me be, I tell you.'

She tried to move away again, but against her will her body began to shake and she collapsed on one elbow, sinking into the mud. Seeing that, Combeferre knelt to feel her pulse. His eyes met Enjolras'.

'She is dying,' said the medical student.

'The cholera?' Courfeyrac's question was tinted with a kind of urgency which was rarely present in his voice, but no-one paid heed. Combeferre gravely nodded. With an air of expertise, he tucked an arm underneath Angelique's legs, put the other around her shoulders, and lifted her out of the mud and the stream of rainwater pouring down the street and into the sewers. Combeferre turned to Enjolras and Courfeyrac.

'What do you intend to do with her?' enquired Enjolras.

Combeferre lowered his gaze to look at the frail body in his arms which shivered from the cold and the sickness, the torn dress that barely covered it having been unable to protect it from either plague. A little foam leaked between the child's pale lips. Combeferre, forgetting the handkerchief in his pocket, wiped it away with the sleeve of his redingote.

'My home is not far from here. I must take her there immediately and treat her,' he said before adding in a softer tone, to prevent the girl from hearing his next words: 'Or she will not live to see the dawn.'


	5. A close brush with the angels

**I do not own Les Misérables.**

* * *

Courfeyrac, as he hastened after Enjolras and Combeferre carrying Angelique, found himself wrestling with his thoughts. He was quite shaken, which was no small thing, as uneasiness had been until then an unknown feeling to him. Yet now! For so long he had yearned for Angelique's presence, he had traced from memory her features in his mind, he had hoped to see her appear at the door of the Cafe Musain; so many times, Courfeyrac had listened in silence to his heartbeat, knowing that now it beat only for her, and that each pulsation drew him further from the last time he had seen her. And now that at last they were together again, he was in danger of losing her forever! Courfeyrac felt sick at the thought. This small, frail girl whose eyes had transfixed him and whose body weakened with each passing minute in its fight against cholera, this girl, he had fed her, protected her, adored her, and she was dying! Alone, she had wandered through Paris from alley to alley. Who had cured her when she'd fallen ill? No-one. Who had stood by her side once he, Courfeyrac, no longer could? No-one. And her prayers, her supplications, who had heard them? No-one but God. Yet God alone cannot cure a nation of misery and suffering. Thus Angelique, suffering and miserable, had remained without a friend through her trials.

God saves souls after death; it is the duty of men to save them before.

Courfeyrac had seen that the people of France were dying, but before this day he had not looked. He had given money to the beggars in the street, but never met their eyes, never listened to their lamentations, never heeded their wounds, never touched their hands shaking from hunger and cold. But he could not look away from Angelique; and at her sight, he had finally understood Enjolras' cause. The misery of the pauper had become Courfeyrac's own. Following this revelation, he swore to himself never to divert his eyes again; and if ever the barricades rose in the streets of Paris, Courfeyrac would be among their defenders, and with his gun he would avenge the thousands of tears shed, those silent prayers to God that only He had heard. Should Angelique die, should she live, Courfeyrac would fight for her and for all those he had until then never dared to look in the eye.

Those were the reflections of the young man as he followed Combeferre.

As for Angelique, what was she thinking about? Nothing. Thinking was something she had ceased to do long ago. At the age of four, she had ceased to love; at eight, she ceased to feel pain, hunger, joy too; at twelve, she ceased to believe; ceasing to think was but the last step. She had let her thoughts go, let them fall into oblivion with ease. At seventeen, nothing was left of Angelique. In Combeferre's arms, she let herself be cradled, distantly sensing his touch, in the same way that a sleeper senses the light of dawn filtering through the curtains; but she felt nothing more. She _was _nothing more. So often had she been forgotten, that she had forgotten herself.

Who will arouse from such a sleep such a fleeting soul, which to escape the torments of daylight retreats even further into the night?

When he arrived at Combeferre's apartment, Courfeyrac forced himself to concentrate on the present moment, and offered to assist his friend in any way; he was ready to do anything to help cure the Petit-Ange. Enjolras returned home at midnight but Courfeyrac refused to leave the girl's side, and he kept himself busy by preparing cold compresses against the fever and cleaning Angelique's dirty dress. Combeferre had obtained an old nightgown from a neighbour, and the child had been dressed in it; it was too long and too wide for her, but it was all they had. At three o'clock in the morning, Combeferre went to rest and Courfeyrac took his place and watched over Angelique. He did not sleep at all.

In the early morning, Combeferre came to sit by him and touched his shoulder.

'You should rest.' 'I can't,' Courfeyrac replied without looking up.

'You have helped me enough. Go home, you need to sleep. Joly can take your place, he too has studied medicine.'

Courfeyrac did not move. Combeferre gazed at him for some time, and gradually, he understood. He chuckled.

'_Pardieu! _My friend, you are in love!'

Courfeyrac shook his head, unable to answer. To tell the truth, he himself did not know the meaning behind his feelings. He was indeed in love, but was he aware of it? Not at all. He who always had a smile on his face, he was the light and the energy of the group, he whose love affairs were countless - and most of which he had forgotten - he had seen how his friend Marius daydreamed about Cosette and had thought: pah, what a waste of time! He had never envisioned himself in such a situation. He knew he was fond of the Petit-Ange; but that was all he was aware of. Thus, unable to understand these new feelings, he had hidden them away - until now. When Angelique had reappeared, Courfeyrac's heart had taken over. His feelings had become apparent to all; to all, but to himself.

Combeferre guessed it, and he understood that Courfeyrac himself wasn't aware that he was in love. Combeferre sighed.

'What shall we do with her, once she has recovered? Obviously she has nowhere to go.'

'I would lodge her,' said Courfeyrac, 'only I am already lodging Marius.'

'She could stay here.'

'With you?'

'Why not? I can sleep in the other room until she has her own residence.'

'We should find her parents.'

'Perhaps she has none. Why else would she be living on the streets?'

'That is true.'

'Besides, all we know of her is her first name.'

'Then perhaps you should lodge her.'

'Yes - I will lodge her.'

They fell silent.

Angelique spent the day in a lethargic state. She was barely aware of what was being said feet away from her, and of a hand lifting her chin and forcing her to drink. Her glassy eyes stared at the window above her bed and the cloudy sky beyond it; her dry and shaking hands gripped the blankets, reflex of those who have lost everything but still hold onto life. For though there are times when it seems that nothing is closer and more welcoming than death, always there is a thread which keeps us tied to the light, and though that thread is thin, it is made of the most resistant fabric of all: hope. When all seems dead, hope keeps alive. Consciously, Angelique hoped for nothing, nothing mattered to her; but deep down, the survival instinct she had inherited more from the beast than from the man kept her heart beating.

At sunset, while Courfeyrac, exhausted, slumbered in an armchair and Combeferre cooled the girl's forehead with a wet cloth, she turned her gaze away from the window and stared at the man beside her.

'_Monsieur,_' Angelique whispered, 'it's no use, I am already dead.'

Confused the peace of the body with the peace of the soul, she thought herself already in God's kingdom. She closed her eyes, her long eyelashes brushing against her skin, then her ochre eyes met Combeferre's again.

'Didn't you know? The angels don't need to be healed in Heaven.'

'But you are not in Heaven,' said Combeferre.

'But the cloud upon which I am lying is so soft...'

'It is not a cloud, but a bed.'

'And that voice that sings outside, surely it belongs to a cherub.'

'It's only a bird,' Combeferre patiently explained. 'You are not yet in Heaven, you are at my apartment.'

Angelique gazed at him for some time, then frowned.

'Your apartment... But... who are you?'

'Combeferre, of course, friend to Enjolras and Courfeyrac. Do you not remember me?'

'Oh!' said the child, and she fell silent. Then she added: 'Courfeyrac, where is he?'

'In the next room, _mademoiselle. _He is resting.'

Angelique nodded. A light passed through her eyes, but Combeferre could not guess the meaning behind it.

'So I am not dead, then?'

'No,' the young man reassured her. 'You are awake, and the worst is over.'


End file.
